Mark of Evil

by Tim LaHaye

  She sighed. There was a flicker of a smile. “Slave driver.”

  “Look, I’m going to run your story, but I’m cutting out all the business with your speculation about Colliquin’s motivations until you get something definitive. And if you do, then we’ll talk.”

  Terri nodded, then turned and started to exit. But she stopped at the glass door. “You know,” she said, “if my name was on this glass”—she pointed to the Publisher title with a chuckle—“I probably would have made the same call you just did.”

  When Kingston was alone again he yawned and rubbed his eyes. He’d been up since four thirty in the morning, and he needed a cup of coffee. Things were rapidly coming to a head in America. He had to keep his focus sharp and clear. He knew that very soon he could be called upon to be more than just a digital journalist for AmeriNews, bucking the political system and printing the other side of the news. Once the order was given by Ethan March, wherever he was and whenever it arrived, Kingston and the whole AmeriNews office would be called upon to commit an act of global defiance.

  He rose from his chair and strolled into the lunchroom, but noticed that the coffee machine was missing. Then he remembered that the electronics in the older-model coffeemaker had gone haywire. One of the interns was supposed to go out and buy a new one. But where was it? He glanced at his Allfone watch and realized it was late afternoon already and he hadn’t taken a break all day. As he strode past the receptionist’s desk, he told her he was taking a walk down to The Beanery Row for a latte and that he would be back shortly.

  When he exited the lobby to the corridor on his way to the elevator, he saw two men in suits punching in a code on the keypad at the office next to AmeriNews. That office space had previously been for rent.

  “So you’re our new neighbors?” Kingston asked as he strode over to them and extended a hand.

  The older of the two, with slightly graying temples, shook his hand. “We are,” he said with the tinge of an accent, though Kingston couldn’t place it. He looked at the new brass plaque next to the door. It read Ultratech Advanced Information Systems.

  “What kind of information systems?” he asked.

  “Everything you can imagine.”

  “Sounds . . . advanced,” he said with a smile.

  “Exactly.”

  Kingston excused himself and hopped on the elevator. When he reached the ground floor, he touched his Allfone and speed dialed Terri and asked her to find out anything she could on Ultratech Advanced Information Systems.

  “Any particular reason?” she asked.

  “Just a vague hunch. Nothing more than that, really. Maybe I just need my caffeine.”

  “Oh, so sorry. No can do. We don’t operate on hunches, remember?”

  Kingston got the jab and snickered.

  “Gotcha on that one,” Terri said. “Fine. I’ll do it. And by the way, I heard you’re on your way to The Beanery Row. Can you bring me back a strawberry creamo-licous with low-fat milk and sugar-free whipped cream?”

  “Sure,” Kingston said, walking down the street and enjoying the outside air. “Don’t forget to check up on our new neighbors.”

  Inside the office of Ultratech Advanced Information Systems, the older man with the silver sideburns stood in his sparse office space. He had just placed a call on his Allfone. When someone on the other end picked up, he said, “Deputy Ho, please.”

  He waited just a minute until his call connected. “Deputy Ho, this is Mr. Dellatar from the Global Alliance Information Security Agency. We have moved into the building in New York. I have even met the publisher, Mr. Bart Kingston. Very cordial. I don’t think he has a clue.”

  “Very good,” Ho replied. “It is imperative that the very moment the transfer of executive power is accomplished and the White House consents to America joining the Alliance, you make your forced entry into AmeriNews. You cannot afford to give them any time to damage their computers or destroy documents. We must find out who their contacts are. Their list of confidential news sources. And what they have been up to. Surprise is essential.”

  “We’re prepared,” Dellatar replied, “to capture control of the AmeriNews facility. Our office is only twenty feet away from their front door.”

  FORTY-TWO

  SOMEWHERE OVER TURKEY

  Pack McHenry didn’t know whether Ethan was dead or alive. But knowing Ethan, he was willing to assume the latter, at least outwardly. And so was the team he had assembled. They were together with Pack and Victoria in the Dassault Falcon private jet now over Turkish airspace, winging their way to New Babylon. Unfortunately, they had scant intelligence about Ethan’s exact location.

  The revamped French jet had been freshly painted with the Global Alliance insignia on the side, courtesy of some contacts Pack had with a private air hangar at the international airport in Rome. The pilot and copilot were both former fliers for the CIA’s covert operations unit in Europe.

  Pack and Victoria were seated in cushy leather seats across the little table in the cabin from two of Pack’s best men: Vincent Romano, a stocky muscular man formerly with Interpol, and Andre Chifflet, a tall former detective with a deceptively easygoing demeanor who used to chase down terrorists from his Paris post with the Direction Centrale de la Police Judiciaire.

  Chifflet was looking at an enlarged satellite photo of the New Babylon complex. But he was shaking his head. “I am afraid that this tells very little, my friend. Only gives us the relative size of the palaces and buildings and the spatial relationships between them, and some data on the physical approaches to the buildings.”

  “Agreed,” Pack said. “Those are the facts, so let’s deal with them.”

  Romano was the blunt one and he jumped in. “Then let me give you some facts, eh? Fact one: we are a small team. Fact two: that means our effectiveness is highest in well-focused attacks. Fact three: this complex is a monstrously large area. Very complicated. Well guarded. Fact four: I’m not fond of dying. But, on the other hand, we all have our eternity settled with almighty God. So that leads me to fact five: if I’m going to die, I’d like it to be quick. But from what I’ve heard about this crazy Colliquin character, death for his enemies doesn’t come quick. For my part, I would rather not be crucified in the Iraqi desert.” He looked to the sky and added, “But pardon me, Lord—no disrespect to Your holy Son who died on the cross that way for me, a rotten sinner.”

  “Do we have intel on those atrocities? The crucifixions by Colliquin’s security forces?” Victoria asked.

  Romano raised both hands in the air. “I have very good sources.”

  “No one is dying here,” Pack interjected. “I don’t care who these Alliance orcs are who are guarding the complex. We’re smarter and we have a hundred years more combined direct operations experience.”

  “And, all combined, a hundred years older,” Romano said with a half chuckle as he looked over the group—all of them over the age of forty-five, and some over fifty. Then he tossed a look over at Victoria. “On the other hand, some of us possess an ageless beauty, and so, Miss Vicky, my comments are not intended for you.”

  Pack was checking his Allfone. Chifflet called over to him. “Hey, Pack, Romano is hitting on your wife again.”

  “I pity any guy who thinks he can tangle with Victoria,” Pack said, grinning. He noticed an incoming call from Rivka and picked it up. Rivka’s voice was tense and high, near the operatic scale.

  “Pack, how close are you?”

  “Over Turkey. We’ll be in Iraq within the hour. And you?”

  “Not close enough. Had to depart from Hong Kong. Hours and hours away. I wish I was with your team.”

  Pack didn’t say it, but he was glad she was on the slower arrival. She was too emotionally invested in the mission. She needed to settle herself. But he didn’t blame her for feeling that way. There were times when Victoria was heading into some tight spots and it looked bad, and he knew exactly how he was tempted to react—with wild, blunt force that despite his years
with the CIA could jeopardize everything. Rivka was no different, despite her training by the Israelis in their Mossad spy agency.

  “Who’s flying you?” Pack asked.

  “Zhang Lee is a pilot and he’s flying this mission himself. We’re in his Learjet.”

  “You’ll make good time.”

  “Not fast enough. So what’s the plan?”

  “We’re looking at the satellite images of the complex right now.”

  Rivka wouldn’t let it rest. “Break it down for me.”

  “It’s too early to give you that. We’ll let you know when we settle on a plan. Meanwhile, get some rest. Try to relax.”

  “I’m trying.”

  “I understand.”

  “Yeah, you probably do,” she said. “You and Vicky.”

  Pack stepped to the other end of the cabin and lowered his voice as he remembered something and decided to share it with Rivka. “We were in Budapest once. Vicky was playing the role of a double agent and was dealing with a seriously dangerous killer sociopath. But the thing was, he had some valuable information. I was supposed to intervene, just in time, after she had received the hand-off from him. But I got delayed, and when I arrived at this grimy little cold-water flat where the guy lived, I was greeted with the sight of a dead woman on the floor and lots of blood. My world collapsed. Until I turned the body over and saw that it was this guy’s girlfriend. Vicky had already escaped. I still think about that.”

  “Thanks, Pack,” she said. Her voice was soft now, and collected. “For caring. For helping. Ethan is blessed to have friends like you.”

  “We’re going to get him back. I really believe that.”

  “I pray you’re right. I know it’s in the Lord’s hands. But it’s tough.”

  “I’ll let you know as soon as we’ve laid out our operational plan, okay?”

  After Pack hung up, he joined the others. Chifflet was rifling through some more satellite images of the complex of buildings. “On the outskirts of the new palaces and the administration buildings,” Chifflet pointed out, “before the security of the complex starts with all of the new structures built under Alexander Colliquin, there are all of the old Babylonian ruins, and the earlier attempts by Saddam Hussein to rebuild them. The palace of King Nebuchadnezzar, the Isthar Gate, those things. So I was just thinking . . .”

  “That those provide good cover for us?” Victoria guessed. “Or a hiding place for Ethan if he can make it outside of the complex?”

  “Maybe cover for us, at least,” he replied.

  Pack was listening, but he was pretty sure what Chifflet and Romano were already thinking. Getting Ethan to the outskirts of New Babylon? First they had to find him. The place was the size of a medium-sized city. And then they would have to navigate their way—or more likely fight their way—through a thick layer of security.

  He pointed to some of the buildings in the photograph. “One of these is the administration building. But I doubt he’s there. Here is the chancellor’s palace. That’s a possibility. One of these structures is also his technology laboratory; I’m not sure which, but there’s also a chance they could have him there in the lab facility too.”

  “Yes,” Romano said, nodding his head. “And if that’s where they have him, then you have to wonder—what have those monsters been doing to him?”

  Torture? Yes, Pack was already there. But he was thinking beyond that too, and privately wondering whether at this point Ethan was still breathing.

  FORTY-THREE

  JUST OUTSIDE THE NEW BABYLON PERIMETER

  Desert near Salman Musa, Iraq

  What they had just seen was horrific. And it had sent Farrah Adis into a torrent of pitiful wailing in the front passenger seat of the little Euro car. Even though this was a flat, lonely wilderness of scrub brush, scorpions, and blistering heat, her sister Salima, who was behind the wheel of the car, still had to roll up the windows, just to be safe. She had parked her car off the highway that ran between Al Hillah and Karbala. She was afraid that Farrah’s intense weeping might be heard by passersby. And then they might report the suspicious activity to the Global Alliance security forces at New Babylon.

  Farrah was still clinging to the binoculars that she had used to see that scene of unspeakable cruelty. Even though the execution site and the body were within view of the highway—a deliberate ploy by Alexander Colliquin to warn the locals—Farrah had to be sure it had been her husband. Now she was sure.

  Salima gently eased the binoculars out of Farrah’s grip. Her sister shuddered and whimpered with grief, and Salima wrapped her arms around her.

  “He is with the Lord Jesus now,” Salima whispered. “And our Savior will give him the loving hugs that you cannot. Your husband is in glory now. Iban has peace and joy.”

  Farrah wiped her face, her chest still heaving with sobs. She tried to speak, but she choked on the words.

  Salima shook her head. “Such evil. We are nearing the end of all things. Come quickly, Lord Jesus . . .”

  She glanced in both directions along the highway. No traffic coming. She lifted the binoculars to her eyes and focused on the scene of the torture just fifty yards away. The two Global Alliance guards were still standing at the foot of the cross made out of steel girders. One of them was looking up at the corpse of Dr. Iban Adis that was draped up on the cross.

  But the other guard had his own binoculars and he was looking right at Salima’s car.

  “We have to go, right now,” Salima called out. “We’re being watched.”

  Farrah nodded and wiped her eyes.

  “Say good-bye to Iban, your precious, courageous husband,” Salima said.

  But as Salima started the car, Farrah shook her head. And she did it so fiercely that it took Salima by surprise.

  “No,” Farrah announced with a struggling smile. “I will not say good-bye. It is too late for that. I will wait instead. I will wait to say hello to him myself, and soon, perhaps.”

  Salima gunned the car north on the highway toward Karbala, away from the disgusting city-state of death and corruption called New Babylon.

  Farrah looked intently at her sister and sniffled. “And now I know.”

  “I am so sorry, dear sister, that you had to see that awful sight, that ugly place of execution for poor Iban,” Salima said.

  “Yes,” Farrah added, but suddenly with a strange kind of determination in her voice. “But I know something else.”

  “What?”

  “I know,” Farrah said calmly, “exactly what I have to do now.”

  The Global Alliance guard held his binoculars to his eyes, watching the dusty cloud that was left behind as Salima’s car headed north. Then he brought the binoculars down from his face. “More curious onlookers. These people around here must not have anything better to do.”

  But the other guard wasn’t listening. He was still staring at the lifeless form of Dr. Iban Adis up on the metal cross. The heat had blistered and bloated the doctor’s face almost beyond any human recognition. The birds and insects and reptiles of the desert had already begun to feast on his dead body over the last few days.

  “Did you hear what I was saying?” the guard with the binoculars asked.

  His partner looked away from the corpse of Dr. Adis and addressed him directly. “I was thinking . . .”

  “About what?”

  “His last words.”

  “Really? I don’t give any thought to such things.”

  “I do. I think they’re important, when a man is dying. What he believes . . .”

  “Ramblings. Insane things, that’s all.”

  But the other guard shook his head. “Dr. Adis looked at me. Right at me. And he said, ‘Believe in the Lord Jesus Christ, and you will be saved.’ That was almost the last thing.”

  “Almost?”

  “A little later he looked up. I don’t even think his eyes were focusing at that point. But he looked up and said, ‘Receive my spirit, Lord.’ ”

  His partner s
coffed. “You’d better watch yourself. Don’t let people think you’re becoming one of those Jesus Remnant types. They’re crazy.”

  The guard seemed to be weighing that. After a moment he tilted his head, glanced back at the corpse of the dead scientist on the cross and at the crucifixion ordered by his Alliance superiors, and then he said to the security partner with the binoculars, “They’re crazy?”

  PRIME MINISTER’S OFFICE

  Jerusalem, Israel

  Sol Bensky drummed his fingers on his desk. He could hear a symphonic rendition of one of Wagner’s operas droning at the other end of his desktop Allfone as he waited to be taken off hold to get an answer to his question.

  Across from the desk, Joel Harmon and Micah sat quietly with their hands in their laps, watching it all unfold. Micah appreciated the fact that Harmon, the young and very controversial member of the Knesset, had been willing to plead the case of Rabbi ZG. For him to have actually arranged the meeting with PM Bensky was practically a miracle. But that day in Bensky’s office, to see the prime minister’s reaction to the arrest of Rabbi ZG, exceeded Micah’s every expectation.

  Sol Bensky had even dispensed with the ordinary diplomatic protocol and made all of the calls himself. First to the Global Alliance consulate in Jerusalem and then up the chain of command to the Alliance’s special envoy to the Middle East sector in Cairo, and then to the Alliance’s governing regent for the Middle East, and finally, now, to the deputy special assistant to Chancellor Colliquin himself.

  Finally a female voice came on the speakerphone. “Mr. Prime Minister?”

  “Yes,” Bensky replied in a voice straining for control.